


Masterpiece

by Miscellaneousmando



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Art History, Brief Mention of Suicide, F/M, First Meetings, Multi, Museums, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:47:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26635342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miscellaneousmando/pseuds/Miscellaneousmando
Summary: After meeting a mysterious artist at the local museum, Marcus and the artist must go through the ups and downs of uncertain and forbidden love though both of them are taken by others.
Relationships: Eventual!Marcus Pike/Reader, Marcus Pike/Reader, Original Male Character/Reader, Teresa Lisbon/Marcus Pike
Kudos: 5





	Masterpiece

That  _ painting _ ; how it enraptured you, calling you forth like a siren’s call to a wayward siren. Your next muse of inspiration. The exhibit around you was quiet, only a few people wandering through. No one else even stopped to consider the mournal painting on the beige and bland wall––The woman wrapped in black with blotchy cheeks that covered her mouth to silence her cries. But it called to you, drew you in like no other. Eagerly, you approached the velvet bench in front of her, bumping into a man by surprise when you went to sit.

“Oh! I’m so sorry, you can–” Jumping back, you motioned for the man to take the seat for you. It was fine, you were used to doing your sketches standing up anyway.

“No no, please,” the man stepped out of the way, motioning for you to sit down. You put your hands up, sitting to the side of the bench.

“There’s enough space for the both of us, I’ll leave this on the floor,” you compromised, letting your canvas bag lay on the floor before scooting over to the side of the bench so the stranger could sit comfortably. He nodded, leaving a modest amount of space between the both of you as to not overstep your kindness. The scent of citrus and clean linen flooded your senses, a warm hint of spice nestled between the more prominent scents.

“Marcus Pike, pleasure to meet you,” he gave you a boyish grin; innocent and pure. Your eyes traced the span of his tanned face, meeting his soft, brown eyes and seeing nothing but good intent. His hand was politely outstretched, and you took it firmly.

“And to you,” you smiled back as you introduced yourself. Marcus was handsome, to say the least. Softened with time with a strikingly unique nose that gave you an itch to sketch out. He would’ve been an amazing model, unlike any other. Awkward silence befell the two of you, and you glanced at the painting before looking back at him. “What brings you here? Working on another masterpiece?”

He gave you a soft smile, shaking his head. “Working, yes, but not on a painting this time,” Marcus paused, raising his brow. Marcus may be an FBI agent, but he doubted he would ever suspect someone’s hobby so easily. “How did you know that I’m a painter?”

“Takes one to know one,” you retorted smugly. “Also, you’ve stopped in front of a very moving piece, I feel as though only a true artist can appreciate such...portrayal of emotion,” you suggested, trying to find the words. “Notice we’re the only two people in this whole place who cared enough to stop at such a painting? It’s such a shame, the details are immaculate but I guess many are looking for something happier.”

Marcus’ eyes flicked to the painting, drinking it in properly. “Care to tell me more about this painting?” 

“ _ Saudade _ ,” you mused, glancing over at Marcus. He met your gaze, but you turned away quickly. There wasn't any reason to, though, but you couldn't help yourself. What would come from getting lost in those eyes? “Painted by Almeida Júnior. A deep, melancholic yearning to be with someone or be some place. You can see it in her eyes, the redness of her cheeks as she cries reading the letter, the darkness of the room yet illuminated by the sun. She’s weeping for one she’s been longing for. Maybe he’s coming home, maybe he never will. A sailor lost at sea? Or a husband promising his return? That’s for Júnior to know.”

Marcus caught half of your monologue, eyes looking you up and down in curiosity. He doubted having heard such a take on a painting since he was in school still, letting it all settle in. When you turned to look at him, he blinked rapidly a few times before cracking a smile. “You sure have a knack for interpretation and an amazing memory. Empathetic, too.”

“I think you are too.” Marcus gave you a funny look, but you continued on. “I think that you’re compassionate and caring, but you’re longing. You are the happier saudade. Remembering the good times. The sailor coming home.”

“Are you some kind of personality witch?” He joked, clasping his hands together. Was he longing? Well, he just started seeing Lisb—Teresa. He had just started seeing Teresa, so maybe he was, just a little.

“Not a witch, just observant. I’ve met lots of people through my passion.” You tilted your sketchbook towards Marcus, letting him see your rough sketch. He brought a finger up, smudging some of the loose graphite across the page, shading in the woman’s dark shawl. “ _ And _ , I lead art lectures sometimes. Just a side hustle; my old friend from school is a professor now. Then again, freelancing is technically a side hustle too.”

“Well, if you would like, tell me more about myself, please.” Marcus hummed, wiping his finger on the underside of the bench.  _ A freelance artist...that’s something new _ .

You put your sketchbook down on your lap for a moment, looking him up and down. Maybe for a bit longer than necessary, but he only smiled in response. “You’re a hopeless romantic, I can see it in your eyes. You...work too much, it’s your passion, just as much as your passion to love. I’d say you want a family, someone to hold––not lonely but longing for company.”

Marcus didn’t reply, gazing off at the painting. In all honesty, he didn’t know how to reply. It was too deep, too probing for him to handle. He shifted his thoughts to the side, looking away. Maybe he would tell Teresa about Saudade and take her out on a date to the museum on his next assignment here? Yes...he would call Teresa tonight and ask her...on a date…

“So, Marcus, ” you interrupted the silence that fell over the both of you, figuring your bold statement had messed with his brain just a little bit. It tended to happen a lot, unfortunately, with your tendency to ramble. “Speaking of the matter, you said you're working, right? Are you a security guard here?” 

Your finger pointed to his lanyard and badge, but he quickly shook his head. “No, I'm actually here to stake out the area for potential art thieves.” The boyish grin was back, and you couldn't help return it; biting your lip as his eyes crinkled with joy. “So in a way, I guess I am a security guard.”

“Art thieves? Was this all an elaborate ploy to see if I were trying to steal  _ Saudade _ for myself?” You teased, looking down at your neglected page. The woman was almost complete, and you were distracting yourself with the window sill for a moment. Glancing back up to him, you didn't let your gaze linger on his face for too long, eyes darting away. “You sure don't look like a cop.”

“I wouldn't say I'm necessarily a cop but…that’s classified information either way, ” he winked, earning a roll of your eyes in response.

“Sureee, sounds just like what a cop would say, but alright. _ Officer Pike _ , ” you began to collect your belongings, sketchbook tucked under your arm. “Care to join me in the next room?” 

He nodded his head slightly, letting you stand to your feet and wordlessly following you.  _ She’s amazing. _ Marcus tries to swat the thought out of his mind, but it's all-consuming.  _ Yet, she’s a mystery. _

* * *

The two of you wandered through the museum for another hour or so, exchanging words of wisdom and interpretation among images of death, mourning, love, and happiness. Marcus was wholly intrigued by your curious, yet endless knowledge, eagerly hanging onto every single one of your words. You eased into a friendship of sorts, not too rushed to say you were great friends, but close enough through art to consider each other more than acquaintances. The power of art is unmatched.

Now, Marcus found himself standing in front of a tall, marble statue that depicted two lovers entangled in each other’s arms. It was tender, the harsh light above allowing every fine detail to be seen, from the gentle lines in the man’s forehead to the little scar on the woman's neck. Yet, there was something in their eyes, in their pose, that seemed to show  _ more _ than Marcus had assumed at first glance. Longing. But a different longing than  _ Saudade _ , a longing for a moment to never end; the lovers were reunited and happy in each other’s nude embrace. Marcus could pick himself apart and find himself in the man who caressed the woman like she was as fragile as a piece of glass yet held her so tightly he could have shattered her. But he couldn't see Teresa in the woman.

“You know what they say about this artist? Charboneau?” You piped up, steering Marcus out of his thoughts. He shook his head in response, eyes studying you. “They say that the woman in this sculpture was his mistress,  _ Mademoiselle Geneviève _ , was a good friend of Charboneau’s wife. If anything of those rumors is true, he was unhappy with his place in life and marriage, longing for the comfort of a sweet and nurturing woman. She-”

You stared at the sculpture with an unreadable expression; Marcus realizing it was the same kind of contempt he bore when he couldn't find himself embracing Teresa in that way. But it was different, not the same kind of frustration that he felt. It was...another level of it. Worse. Maybe you knew the pain of Geneviève, who loved a man taken by a close friend.  _ Maybe you were too much like Charboneau _ ,  _ who loved another while contracted to one you once loved. _

“Geneviève went on to kill herself shortly after this sculpture was created—released right after Charboneau’s divorce. Many believe that Charboneau’s ex-wife had murdered Geneviève in an act of revenge before going into hiding. After that...he stopped sculpting and became a kind of a hermit. Losing himself in grief.”

Marcus looked at you with wide eyes, but you just shrugged. Many artists had shared similar stories, but this one had so much potential, only to be dragged down by someone you had once loved.  _ “ _ That’s terrible.”

“That’s love, ” you corrected. Was the heartless murder an act of pained love? Betrayal? Or was the loss of passion and the will to move on an act of true love? Marcus didn't know, but he didn't ask either. If you had known an answer, you would have said it. It was a quirk he noticed in the last few hours with you; you never once held back your expansive knowledge of the arts. Before he could respond, you picked up your phone, eyes widening in surprise.

“Shit—I didn’t realize how late it got! My boyfriend’s gonna be home from his shift soon and I still have to go run and pick up dinner, ” you scrambled to pack away your pencils and erasers, gently folding the flap of your sketchbook down as to not smudge the fresh graphite on the paper. 

Marcus bit his lip, looking away from you when you mentioned your boyfriend. It shocked him, really, but he didn't know why. It really shouldn't matter to him anyway, he’s already seeing Teresa and you're taken. You’re just his friend…Are you friends?

“Would you like me to drive you home?” He blurted out, internally smacking himself in the face. “It’s uh, not the safest to walk around Sacramento so late at night. Gets kinda weird out there…”

“It’s only 8 p.m., I think I can handle myself, but maybe next time! We should meet up again when they change the exhibits in a few weeks…It’d be really nice to see you again—And thank you for making my night so fun, it's been a while since someone’s joined me to an art museum, ” you smiled, slinging your bag over your shoulder before turning back to wave a little. “I’ll see you soon, Marcus.”

“See you soon, ” Marcus nodded, smiling politely as you went. But it soon faded when you got far away enough, his eyes drifting over to the statue beside him.  _ Défendu. _ Forbidden. Pondering for a moment, Marcus snapped his head up, eyes wide as he realized that he didn't know how to contact you.

“Hey! Wait, I don't have your number, ” he called out, rushing through each room and past the few mingling people who roamed the emptying exhibits. A small semblance of hope when he spotted your shirt from afar, slowing down just a little bit when he realized it didn’t belong to you.

You were already gone.


End file.
